


A Debt Repaid

by fiendlikequeen



Series: The Terror Triptych [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, Light Angst, M/M, Rimming, bottom!Francis, i love them but they're dumber than a sack of lemmings, my lads are so stupid and so repressed, top!James
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24281506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiendlikequeen/pseuds/fiendlikequeen
Summary: April, 1847: James is owed a debt from a previous encounter. He visits Francis with the aim of collecting upon it.Sequel to "The Seeled Hawk."
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Series: The Terror Triptych [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752835
Comments: 68
Kudos: 131





	A Debt Repaid

**Author's Note:**

> I blame some very lovely people for encouraging me to write a sequel to my previous smutty indulgence, "The Seeled Hawk," or "The One in Which They Bang in a Victorian Sex Club." My dignity has left the building. Goodbye, dignity!
> 
> There will be a third fic to round out the full triptych. Y'all are a wonderfully, horribly, magnificently bad influence. Love you.

Francis Crozier is alone in the great cabin on _Terror_ and very pleased to be so. A football match is being played a half-mile off, near _Erebus;_ he has given leave for every man to attend. There is not a soul aboard save Francis, and perhaps a few rats – even Neptune had deigned to join the Erebites in their sport.

The sound of shouting – happy, joyous cries – reaches _Terror_ when the wind is right. Francis listens absently, but not in envy. He shares his solitude with _Terror,_ taking a certain boyish glee in being unchaperoned in her august presence. A wonderful thing his sweetheart _Terror_ is, he but an eager suitor overjoyed to at last be _alone_ with her.

Francis busies himself with a few idle calculations and the beginnings of a paper on them; the compass needle has of late swung wildly, and he takes this opportunity to measure any change in magnetic declination. Despite the needle’s roving, has found no great overall variation by the day, or even by the month, though there is a shift of a few degrees in a year; this will be of great interest to James, should Francis live to see his friend Ross again.

All is quiet: the soft sighing of the wind in _Terror’s_ timbers, the near-silent hiss of the coal burning in the brazier, the scratch of Francis’s pen, the far-off shouting. And it is warm, too: Francis is without a jacket before the roaring brazier. In such peace, one would almost think all is well.

Francis, absorbed in the task at hand, does not venture a glance out onto the pack. The approach of a tall, dark-coated figure, therefore goes unnoticed until he hears its first step onto _Terror’s_ gangplank. He raises his head, at first assuming that the men have returned; but this is a single set of footsteps.

Measured steps, that make their way across the upper deck, and then down the ladder. A purposeful stride, increasing in volume as it approaches the great cabin. A man with a clear objective, obviously, and some business with Francis – Blanky, perhaps, though Blanky’s footfalls are a great deal heavier. Jopson? No, Jopson walks with a near-silent tread.

A gentle knock, and then Francis scowls to recognize the voice accompanying voice. “Francis?”

“Come,” he says, wishing for a rather more colourful word.

There is James Fitzjames at his doorstep, hat in hand. Francis hates the very sight of him – hates him from his crown of lovely, gleaming hair right down to the tips of his polished boots. Loathes him utterly and entirely. Loathes his well-featured face with its winning smile; loathes that he finds it compelling even more.

“Ah, Francis,” says Fitzjames, blithe as anything. Francis considers wringing his neck. “I was told I’d find you here.”

Francis grunts a confirmation. No doubt there had been some sneering about it – Crozier, ineffable misanthrope that he is, has shuttered himself up as far from company as possible. Not entirely untrue, however.

Fitzjames takes a moment to shut the door behind him. Why bother? It isn’t as if they will be overheard. “Not enjoying the festivities?”

 _Trying to stay away from you,_ is what Francis would like to answer. “Thought I’d let the men enjoy their fun without scrutiny. And you?”

Fitzjames makes no reply. Francis tries something else.

“Who’s winning?”

“What? Oh. Your Terrors, you’ll be pleased to know. They’ve an advantage in Mr. Blanky. A veritable dab hand at football, and quite a fierce competitor. Graham had to mediate a rather ferocious disagreement between him and Mr. Reid on the subject of a penalty. They agree upon matters of ice, it seems, but less on the rules of the game.”

Francis grins, but the second Fitzjames returns the gesture, it metamorphoses into a grimace. This grimace deepens to a frown, the frown to a scowl, as Fitzjames begins to settle in. He removes his hat and coat. He drapes the coat over the back of one of the chairs, smoothing it down, before laying the hat on its seat. He obviously plans to stay.

“May I?” he asks, indicating one of the other chairs.

A nod is wrung from Francis’s reluctant neck. He doesn’t quite know what to do. He does not want to call for tea – he doesn’t want Fitzjames to get the idea that he is welcome. Besides, Jopson is out on the ice with the others.

(Christ, is he _alone_ with Fitzjames? The last time that happened-)

“Do you require something, commander?”

Fitzjames crosses one leg over the other. A shockingly elegant gesture. “Consider it a social call. It has been some time since you graced _Erebus_ with your presence.”

“There is much to do here.”

Fitzjames waves this away with one hand. “There is as little to do on _Terror_ as there is on _Erebus._ Sir John has noted your absence.”

“I doubt you came all this way to tell me that Sir John lacks me at his table. He would tell me that himself. And I would go to him, if he commanded it.”

“He does not wish to command it. He wishes you to come freely. And joyfully. Though perhaps joy is too much to expect,” adds Fitzjames. There is not quite enough rudeness in his tone for him to be accused of insubordination, but enough bile to make it sting at Francis’s raw nerves.

“I do not keep away from _Erebus_ purposefully,” says Francis. When Fitzjames scoffs, Francis scowls. “Nor do I shun Sir John’s company-”

Fitzjames’s rebuttal is quiet but carries easily across the cabin. “Perhaps not Sir John’s.”

“You think I avoid _Erebus_ because of you?”

“It is a logical conclusion. I did not think it was because of the cold. You are accustomed to coldness.” There is an insult there. Francis lets it go. “Do you deny it?”

Francis does not make an immediate reply. A ready quip leaps to his lips but Francis does not make use of it. There is a rare moment of silence from Fitzjames. He cocks his head. Francis meets his gaze and regrets it at once – there is a piercing wit that lies therein. Any attempt at a lie and Francis would be caught out.

Francis’s silence is confirmation enough. Fitzjames nods. “I had thought so. I assume that it is a certain evening we passed together that forms the basis of your reluctance?”

As if Fitzjames has not given him more cause than that to disdain the other man’s company! “That was two years ago now-”

“One does not easily forget such things.”

“ _You_ don’t, obviously.”

“Am I to take it that you are in such a regular habit of visiting similar establishments that our…encounter was a commonplace occurrence?” Fitzjames asks it with a maddening mildness. His reasoning is entirely sound, of course.

This does little to endear him to Francis. Heat has begun to creep from his cheeks all the way to his hairline. He knows he is blushed a patchy red. “Of course not. I’ve never – it was my first time to that damned house, and I shan’t be back, I’ll tell you-”

“Then do not perjure yourself, Francis, and say that you do not think on what passed between us there.”

“I remember it, of course, but-”

“You do not think of it, each time you see me?”

“Naturally you assume that a single encounter should form the basis of my entire opinion of a man, and not his persistent attitude towards me-”

“A single encounter of great significance, wouldn’t you say? A rather intimate one?”

This has touched too close to the heart of the matter. Francis rises from his seat. He crosses to the door. “I’ll not sit here and discuss such obscenity,” he begins. He moves to wrench it open and order Fitzjames through it and off _Terror,_ but finds it locked. “What in God’s name-”

Fitzjames is on his feet now, in two strides at Francis’s side. He lays his hand upon the door. In so doing he brushes against Francis’s hand. Francis snatches his own back. “If nothing else, you owe me your candor. You never look at me but with contempt. Is it not that you think of what we-”

“You must think me a very sorry creature, to look at another man and think of nothing but his prick,” snarls Francis.

Colour flames high in Fitzjames’s cheeks and his eyes burn. A mercy, when those eyes had been covered. Francis is delivered from their gaze only when Fitzjames seizes him by the lapels and drags him in for a kiss. Francis’s mouth opens by reflex and there is a quiet groan from one of them – which one? – as Fitzjames’s tongue slips between Francis’s lips.

One hand goes into his hair, and holds Francis firm; the other snakes around the small of his back and Fitzjames bends Francis into him almost to the point of pain. Francis is now not so much being kissed as intimately devoured, fully at the mercy of Fitzjames’s mouth.

(It is a clever mouth, as insistent a seducer as it is a braggart.)

Fitzjames pushes him back, away from the door, driving Francis deeper into the great cabin. For a terrifying moment Francis wonders if he is making for Francis’s berth, until the back of his knees hit the table at which they had been sitting.

“What the hell are-” he begins, when he has managed to escape Fitzjames’s biting grasp long enough to gasp in a breath. But again Fitzjames descends upon him like a starving creature, swallowing Francis’s protestations.

Francis has not been kissed so soundly for years. He wonders at Fitzjames’s desperation, but unless there is a willing body on _Erebus_ (and perhaps there is – he knows Fitzjames immeasurably fond of Le Vesconte) Fitzjames has been without this sort of release since they set off.

(Christ, was Francis the last person to bed Fitzjames? Quite the concept.)

Francis manages to get Fitzjames by the jaw and push him away. He sucks in a deep breath. “Are you mad-”

“You owe me this,” snaps Fitzjames. He is crowding Francis against the table. “You owe me, Francis.”

“I owe you _nothing._ ”

Fitzjames’s hands roam freely over Francis’s front, kneading his abdomen, pawing at his chest. He breathes heavily, panting great gusts of air through his mouth. His breath is hot against Francis’s neck.

“You are my subordinate,” Francis reminds him. This should not need saying, but Sir John allows Fitzjames so much latitude to deride him that it bears mention. “I am captain of the vessel we are aboard-”

(He does not slap away Fitzjames’s searching grasp. He likes to think it is that he has too much dignity. What will trouble him later is that he did not wish to deny those hands their access to him.)

Fitzjames gives a low growl in response. “Your rank be damned, Francis. You had me once, bound and senseless, at your mercy. I _will_ have you at mine. I am _owed_ it.”

Francis says nothing – tacit consent. There is but a moment where he meets Fitzjames’s gaze, before he finds himself grasped by the hair and wrenched about, so his back is to the other man.

Fitzjames is strong – stronger, perhaps, than Francis had expected. After all, when last they had met like this, Fitzjames’s considerable strength had been all bound up. Now, he is free. He is taller than Francis, younger, and far more determined. Francis might have the advantage of heft, but that is his only advantage. Perhaps the nature of their last such meeting has given Francis the erroneous idea that he is the stronger man.

Fitzjames rips off his jacket and then clears the table with one swipe of his arm. He is down to his waistcoat and shirt as he pushes Francis down onto the table, kicking his feet apart so that he may stand between Francis’s spread thighs. He presses one arm into Francis’s back, clawing the other into Francis’s hip in order to drag Francis flush with his body. Francis could not escape this embrace without considerable effort, if at all – it is lucky, then, that he does not want to.

Fitzjames’s groin presses into Francis’s backside. Even through the layers of fabric between them, Francis can feel that Fitzjames’s prick is fully hard. He has the urge to mock the man – eager boy, excited merely by the idea of grinding his manhood into another man’s arse – and would do it, were he not also stiffening under Fitzjames’s hands.

Fitzjames strokes him, roughly, through his clothes, as he rubs himself up against Francis’s backside. It is utterly undignified and entirely ridiculous. Francis wonders how he looks bent over a table in his own great cabin being rutted into the wood by James Fitzjames.

(Fitzjames likely looks magnificent, infuriating creature that he is.)

The other man is panting already. “I ought to tie _you_ up,” he says. Words rush from him in a torrent. No babbling brook is he, but a roaring river. “Blindfold _you,_ have my way with you and then leave you-”

Francis did not do the leaving – that had been Fitzjames. A rather insignificant point, but of course Fitzjames has interpreted past events to make himself the poor, suffering victim.

“Hush, you fool, someone will hear,” hisses Francis. He wants desperately to stop up Fitzjames’s mouth, not only in fear that they will be discovered. “Someone will-”

Fitzjames is pressing all his weight down on Francis now. His prick is hard and heavy, chafing against the meat of Francis’s buttock. “They’re all out on the ice. No one to hear. Or come to your aid. Just you and me, Francis-”

 _Francis._ It prickles at the back of Francis’s neck. The disrespect of it! A casual form of impudence, to call Francis by his Christian name. _Francis._

Is Fitzjames determined to take his satisfaction this way? As if he has heard the thought, Fitzjames eases off with a grunt. Francis turns to look at him, and when Fitzjames produces a small bottle of oil from his pocket, Francis cannot contain a laugh. Fitzjames scowls at him as he greases up the fingers of his right hand. “Something _amusing,_ Francis?”

“You planned this,” he sneers. He lets his eyes wander from Fitzjames’s flushed cheeks to the considerable bulge in his trousers. He jeers, bitterly. “Have you planned this since – for _two years?”_

A hand seizes Francis’s hair and forces him to look away, an elbow in his back pressing him down into the table. Francis goes on laughing.

“Planned to come here-”

“Be quiet.” He is struggling to unfasten Francis’s braces from the back of his trousers. Foolish man – he should have thought of that before oiling up his grasp.

“-while the men were distracted, so you could do this-”

“Quiet.”

“Did you think about it often?” asks Francis. His hands are flat against the wood, but he is not trying to push himself up and out of Fitzjames’s grasp. He yields to the other man’s touch. “Buggering me over a table? Is that what the hero of Zhenjiang thinks of when he-”

Fitzjames’s snarl is barely human. “Shut up.”

Francis does not take commands from James _fucking_ Fitzjames. “I am here, as you wished. Defenseless, as you so obviously desire to see me. Go on then, take your pleasure as you planned-”

“ _My_ pleasure?” seethes Fitzjames. The hand not struggling with disengaging Francis’s braces grips Francis’s prick with a brutal squeeze. Francis betrays himself by choking down a low moan. “Will you pretend, then, that _you_ have never taken pleasure from _me?_ It was not I who sought you out in that house, not I who took your cock in my mouth-”

“You think about it often, I see,” returns Francis. “About my generosity.”

“Generosity? You enjoyed it,” growls Fitzjames. Francis’s trousers are around his ankles now, his drawers about his knees. His shirttails protect what little modesty he has left. There is no warning as two of Fitzjames’s fingers plunge into him. Fitzjames is clearly practiced at this – more mockery rises to Francis’s lips, but which he swallows back down – and he seeks out that tender spot inside. “Enjoyed sucking another man’s cock-”

Francis spits a curse at Fitzjames, but cants his hips back to meet Fitzjames’s clever fingers. He feels the anticipation swelling already, coiling deep in his belly, gathering at the base of his cock.

“-touching your own while you were full of me-”

Francis is achingly hard and dripping. This is already nearly too much – he is not sure that he will survive Fitzjames’s cock when his hand has him already dangerously close. “Fuck-”

“-fucking yourself on my prick, like a filthy whore-”

Francis scrabbles at the wood, hissing like a cat: “Damn you, you insolent wretch-”

Fitzjames laughs. He is laughing _at_ Francis. Francis burns in shame to moan for a man so ridiculing him. “Yes, yes, curse me – curse me, and my prick, and my hands, and my tongue-”

His tongue? Francis yelps as Fitzjames’s fingers are removed and a warm, wet tongue begins an assault instead. Blessed silence at last, but at what cost? This is a sordid act. Francis delights in it, delights in having Fitzjames’s tongue lapping and licking at that unmentionable part of him – what kind of man is he, to revel in this?

What kind of man is Fitzjames, to offer it? He grunts and groans in obvious enjoyment and Francis can hear a rustle of cloth as a hand works at Fitzjames’s prick.

(Francis hopes it is enjoyment of his victory and not enjoyment of so pleasing Francis. The idea that Fitzjames could ever savour bringing Francis such an intimate pleasure is a rather dangerous one.)

“Get on with it, won’t you?” snaps Francis, when Fitzjames’s pace becomes nearly leisurely.

He is rewarded for his impatience with three oiled fingers. Francis grunts against the intrusion, but not in protest – he welcomes the blissful strain.

“I’ll have you when _I’m_ ready, and not a moment sooner,” pronounces Fitzjames. He uses that same irritating tone he does when recounting one of his long-winded tales. This tone deepens, becoming darker and more dangerous as he goes on. “Unless, of course, you’d like to _beg_ me for it?”

Francis spits an oath back at him.

“Go on,” he says. His fingers slip in and out of Francis’s body. This is fast becoming unsatisfying – Francis wants something else inside him. His flesh mutinies, and presses itself into Fitzjames, into those clever fingers and that hard cock rubbing against his backside. “Beg me for it. Beg me to get my cock in you, so deep-”

Fitzjames is rewarded with a colourful torrent of invective, part of it in Irish.

“-fuck you ‘till you’re spent-”

Francis’s curses are entirely Irish, now. Fitzjames laughs, low and throaty, as he nuzzles at the back of Francis’s neck. Francis throws his head back, rearing like a horse unwilling to be saddled, but Fitzjames is the stronger man, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to Francis’s nape.

“Damn you-”

Another laugh, another kiss. But as his fingers withdraw - Francis grunts in disappointment - Fitzjames’s own impatience seems to have won out at last. Francis hears the bottle uncorked a second time, and knows what is about to happen. The sound of grease being spread over Fitzjames’s member is near-silent, a sordid, taunting whisper of what is to come.

Francis feels the head of Fitzjames’s cock press up against the cleft of his arse. It is wet, and Francis remembers what it looks like when so excited – rose-red, glistening, and proud. A lovely thing, to be sure, and a shame that it happens to be attached to Fitzjames. Fitzjames toys with it, rubbing it up and down between Francis’s cheeks, but Francis will not beg – will not debase himself and plead to be buggered.

A low moan, then a quiet grunt, then an actual hiss issue from behind Francis. Fitzjames is evidently attempting to check his desire, cognizant as Francis is of the danger of discovery. But still the low cacophony he rumbles is still so very loud – if this is him at his most restrained, Francis imagines what a shrieking, howling thing he must be when he is assured of safety and privacy.

(Best not to consider what it would be like to have Fitzjames somewhere safe and warm, where the two of them could wail to their hearts’ content.)

Francis feels now the head of Fitzjames’s cock now bump gently against his entrance; as if a decorous young gentleman, hat in hand, knocking upon a door and politely asking for admittance. Is Fitzjames hoping that Francis will invite him in?

Francis does not indulge Fitzjames with a reply except to press himself closer to Fitzjames’s body.

Fitzjames enters him slowly at first, but then eagerness seems to overtake him and in one smooth motion he seats himself fully. Francis bites down on his sleeve in an attempt to stifle a groan. Fitzjames has obviously heard this protestation, as his motion ceases instantly.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks. “Francis, for God’s sake, answer me, am I-”

His tone is too tender, his concern too genuine. Francis gags on it – he does not want to be pitied by this man. He turns as best as he can, to meet Fitzjames’s searching eyes. “You’re not capable of hurting me,” he snaps. The implication hangs in the air between them: _you are not strong enough to harm me. I do not care for you enough for you to be able to harm me._

Fitzjames’s gaze blackens. His lip curls in a snarl, baring his front teeth. One hand grasps for Francis’s shoulder, and then Francis is rewarded for his vitriol with a powerful thrust. It leaves him gasping, the strength of Fitzjames’s effort enough to knock the breath from him. His head spins and he cries out.

Francis drops his head onto one folded arm. At this angle he can no longer meet Fitzjames’s stare. He feels its noonday blaze all the same.

Fitzjames’s pace is merciless. All leisurely easiness is gone now, and he fucks Francis with sharp, brutal snaps of his hips. Francis has not been taken like this in years, perhaps not ever. Francis remembers his youthful paramours and their awkward, fumbling advances – delightful, of course, but as like this as a candle’s flame to the great aurora.

“Is it good?” asks Fitzjames, when a particularly well-aimed jab has Francis writhing and gasping under him.

Francis volleys back an expletive. Fitzjames laughs. He fumbles for Francis’s cock with his right hand. The moment he meets Francis’s needy flesh, Francis chokes out what sounds like a sob.

“That even better?” Fitzjames strokes him hard and fast, in tandem with his thrusts. It is just as well Fitzjames has him pinned to the table; Francis’s limbs feel about as firm as pudding, and he doubts they could support his weight. “Tell me you like it.”

“Fuck off,” snarls Francis, as though Fitzjames is not rubbing the evidence of Francis’s enjoyment.

Fitzjames tsks. “Stubborn,” he remarks. “But I’ll have you whimper before I’m done.”

It is not a whimper Fitzjames gets from Francis now, but a furious hiss. “I,” he pronounces, having to time his words with Fitzjames’s thrusts, “invite you to attempt it. A futile attempt, of course, but you may _try._ ”

This challenge sees Francis driven hard into the wood. Fitzjames gets one foot up on Francis’s vacated chair. It groans under his weight; so too does Francis. Francis is trembling all over. He is close, so close, another minute of this and he’ll-

Fitzjames lets go of his prick. Francis actually whines in complaint – not quite the whimper for which Fitzjames has been angling, but close enough - as his body bemoans the loss of that clever hand. “What the-” he gasps out.

“Did you like that? Do you want me to go on rubbing that thick cock of yours?” Fitzjames takes him in hand again, as he leans over him. “Then beg. Beg me for it.”

Francis bares his teeth in a grimace. “Go to hell.”

“As you will,” says Fitzjames. He lets go of Francis’s prick again. Francis gives a low cry and slams a fist into the table. Fitzjames’s prick pleases him from the inside, more tantalizing than satisfying. Any hope for a climax will be at Fitzjames’s hand.

Francis curses him with all sorts of colourful names. Fitzjames gives a low laugh. He covers Francis’s body with his own, hooking clawed fingers into Francis’s hips, breathing his words into Francis’s ear. “Beg.”

“Damn you, damn you, damn you-” Francis is too close, he wants his release so badly, needs it, craves it like his whole being craves whisky, more even than that-

Fitzjames’s teeth nip the tender flesh just under Francis’s lobe. This is too rash, it will leave a mark above Francis’s collar. “Beg.”

Francis pounds out his fury on the wood. Fitzjames goes on laughing at him.

“Fuck,” snarls Francis at last. “Fuck – please. Please, James, God, _please-_ ”

True to his word, Fitzjames takes him in hand again. Francis should not mewl like a kitten to be so handled, but God, he has never felt like this before, this is more than he ever knew was possible-

“That’s it,” says Fitzjames. Sweet encouragement. Good Christ, but Francis will hurt him later for it. “Good man. Come on.”

“Please-”

For what is Francis asking? He is not entirely sure.

“Yes, yes, come on.”

“James-” Francis’s eyes flutter shut. His whole body is rigid, straining against the onslaught.

“That’s it, Francis. Come for me, there’s a good man-”

In five strokes Francis spends in Fitzjames’s hand, a great messy spurt. All the tension wound up tautly in his limbs leaves him in an instant, and he is at once as loose as flapping canvas in a calm wind. Fitzjames, rutting wildly into Francis’s body – oh, Francis will be deliciously tender after this – is not far behind. In less than a minute there is a half-shout, and:

“Francis, Francis, _Francis-”_

A certain unmistakable sensation of warmth and wet, and Fitzjames slumps across Francis’s back. He is rather heavy.

When his weight becomes oppressive, Francis elbows Fitzjames in the ribs. With a low huff, Fitzjames rolls off him. His softening prick slips out of Francis’s body. When he lurches to his feet and lists heavily into the table, Francis feels no small degree of pride in being the source of those faltering steps. Pride, of course, until bitter realization comes over the horizon of his momentary bliss, blackening his mood like a thunderhead’s ominous front.

He must look perfectly ridiculous – red-faced, his thinning hair plastered to his brow, his freckled arse bared to the air and dripping Fitzjames’s seed. He imagines the new derision for this added indignity:

_Despises glory. A lushington, to boot. And desperate to take it up the arse!_

Holding up his trousers and linens in one hand, Francis hobbles over to his seat of ease. He seats himself, removing his handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat. It is lucky he has little attachment to his handkerchiefs – he will wipe himself clean with this one, and then dispose of it and the evidence it contains down the seat of ease. He will not leave it with his laundry for Jopson to wonder at.

“Francis,” says Fitzjames. But one word. Already he is buttoned up and neat. Fitzjames has less to clean up than Francis. After all, he has left himself inside Francis, for Francis to manage.

Francis will not tolerate the man a second longer than he must. “If you consider your debt paid, take your leave. I would attend to myself with what little dignity you have seen fit to leave me.”

An odd look crosses Fitzjames’s face. “My intention was not to humiliate you,” he says, rather quietly.

Francis scoffs at that. Has that not always been Fitzjames’s intention? To ridicule him? “Consider yourself dismissed, commander.”

“Then it is by your leave, sir,” says Fitzjames. _Sir._ Some obedience restored. He retrieves his hat and coat. “That I bid you good day.”

Francis gives him a tight nod, as though they have only passed one another on the quarterdeck. Fitzjames returns the gesture. Still that odd look remains – Francis does not dwell upon it. Fitzjames unlocks the door, slides it open, and then he is gone.

By the time Jopson returns with the rest of the men, Francis has retaken his seat and is as presentable as when his steward left. It is as if there is nothing amiss.

“I hope you passed a pleasant afternoon, sir?”

“Hmm. Did you?”

“Oh yes. Though I’m sure Mr. Blanky will tell you all about it. I shouldn’t like to deprive him of the story – but a very diverting contest for the men, sir. Sir John enjoyed it particularly,” says Jopson. Francis fights a grimace. “Though it was a wonder Commander Fitzjames was absent. I suppose he has some pressing business elsewhere.”

Francis thinks of that _pressing business_ , and the tenderness it has left.

“I suppose he did. Another cup of tea, will you, Jopson?”

“Right away, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever reach a point in your life where you just think, "huh. Guess this is where I am now"? Because apparently where I am at this point is using my MA in English lit to write historical smut. Who woulda thunk it? 
> 
> (Me, actually.)


End file.
